


Usually

by Empirical_Equipoise



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alpha!Eliot which is pretty canon, Eliot and Nate have unfinished business, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Maggie is amazing, Possibly Pre-Slash, Spanking, The Jailhouse Job
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empirical_Equipoise/pseuds/Empirical_Equipoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You need a line to toe, Nate? Here it is. But if you pull a stunt like this again, you’re going to find out what I usually do. And you’re going to like it even less than this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, world. This is my very first time posting fic, but I've been an avid reader for years. Comments and feedback are very welcome!

Two things were immediately apparent to Nathan Ford when he walked into his kitchen. The first was that his bottle of bourbon was not where he left it. The second was that the first observation meant that someone had been here. 

What was _not_ apparent was Eliot, standing about four paces behind him.

(Nate may or may not have startled violently at the sound of his voice).

“Evening, Nate.”

“Eliot.” He said, mildly. He was moderately sure that he wasn’t about to suffer cardiac arrest. “Can I offer you a drink?”

 The hitter crossed his arms and stared at Nate, appraisingly. “Are you sure that’s the question you want to lead with, Nate?”

“Well, I’m stuck with it now, aren’t I?”

Nate’s laugh was a little on the nervous side as Eliot came around the counter to stand in front of him. He was dressed casually in worn jeans and a gray Henley, his hair loose around his shoulders. His boots were still on. There was something slightly off about that, but Nate didn’t have time to pursue the thought as Eliot moved closer.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

Eliot took another slow step forward, forcing Nate to lose ground, or lose eye contact. Nate lost ground.

“We never finished our conversation from earlier, Nate. You know what I usually do to people that run a con on their own team? Almost get people killed because they’re out of control?”

Nate felt his pulse speed up as he assessed his options. There weren’t many. Eliot knew him too well to fall for any of his usual tactics, and he had an ominously familiar look in his eyes. The sharp bite of adrenaline in his system felt brittle. Eliot smirked, reading Nate’s fear, but his eyes remained cold.

“What, you think I’m going to kill you? I won’t say I wasn’t tempted. No, Nate. That doesn’t solve anything. Not in this scenario. The thing is, Nate…”

Eliot closed his eyes briefly and pushed a frustrated hand through his hair. Nate distantly wondered at the impracticality of a fighter keeping his hair so long. The dark dye had faded off in the past few weeks and glints of gold ran along the strands.

“The thing is, you betrayed our trust. You put us in danger. Me, and Hardison, and Parker and Sophie. Now, don’t get me wrong, the others are pissed too, but they aren’t going to do anything about it.” Nate shifted his weight at the accusation, but didn’t break eye contact.

“Of course, Hardison might screw up your accounts, and Parker might pick-pocket you blind, and Sophie will give you some lecture that you will conveniently forget with a little help from the bottle. We’ve all run this particular con on each other long enough. You remember what my job is, Nate? I keep the team safe. So it becomes something of a problem when the biggest danger to the team is you.”

For once, Nate didn’t have a snappy comeback. Infuriatingly, Eliot was completely right. Nate looked away.

“I- I’m sorry. You’re right, I was out of line. But I only-“

“But nothing, Nate! You don’t con your own team, and you don’t let your personal agenda compromise the safety of your team! I’ve lost too many good people to stupid mistakes to just let this go, Nate.”

“So what, you’re leaving us? I’m sorry, alright! I’m sorry. But they- we need you to be here!”

Nate’s voice rose as the implications of losing Eliot started to expand in his mind, relentlessly. The team would fall apart. His family. Their family. He stared hard at the floor, turning over arguments to convince Eliot to stay.

  
Eliot snorted, his disdain clear. “Who said anything about leaving? No, I’m staying, though after tonight-“Eliot chuckled darkly, “Well, you’re likely to have some mixed feelings about that.”

Nate’s eyes rose slowly, his muscles tensing as the quiet threat hung in the static-and-dust smell the apartment hadn’t quite lost since he came back from prison. Their eyes met.

“Nate.” Eliot walked forward until he was standing right in front of the older man once more. Nathan tried to back up but he had run out of space, and his back was to the wall.

“Eliot, hey alright, you made your point. I’ve apologized, you were right, I was wrong, let’s order a pizza or some-“

His babbling was cut off by a calloused hand pressed against his mouth. Eliot’s other hand wrapped around the back of his head, holding him in place.

“Nathan. Ford. I am holding you accountable for betraying the trust of your team, your family who relied on you to be honest with them.” Eliot growled. “From now on, when you get out of line there will be consequences and you will accept them. We’ll discuss your little drinking issue later.”

Eliot abruptly let go of Nate and took a step back, watching the shift of fear-incredulity-anger-shock-fear-humiliation-anger as it flickered across his face. Nate was obsessed with being in control, but what he didn’t often think about was that Eliot could turn the tables on him at almost any time, and the only reason he didn’t do so was because he usually judged Nate as most qualified to run the show. Mental and emotional power plays were just as native to Eliot as physical ones, and Nate recognized the moment he was out of his depth.

Sensing the power shift, Eliot took another step back, gesturing Nate toward the main table. Cautiously, Nate followed the silent order, blood rushing in his ears. He half expected a blow to land on the side of his head, but it never came. He got to the table and turned around, uncertain. He had a very strong suspicion that he knew precisely what he was in for, but he was holding tightly to the faint hope that he was mistaken. Eliot stood at ease, his posture belying his intent. His expression was carefully blank, but years of working together told Nate that he was slightly amused at his docility.

“We both know I can’t take you, Eliot.” He said, frustrated. Eliot laughed, short and sharp.

“Why Nate, that’s a fine observation. The real question is whether or not you’re going to make me demonstrate that. Now, drop your pants and put your hands on the table.”

Nate’s heart kicked into over-drive and he felt sweat prickle his palms, a flush rising rapidly to his face. Surely this was a con… Eliot wouldn’t really- yes. Yes he would. Fuck.

“I-I’m sorry, did you just tell me to drop my pants?” He stammered, as the order sent his mind to several places at once. To his chagrin, the commanding tone of Eliot’s voice inspired more than just anxious humiliation and he closed his eyes in pre-emptive mortification as his bloodstream changed priorities. 

Desperate to distract himself, and more importantly, Eliot, Nate began to babble. “Ok. Eliot, ok. You’re right. I conned the team. I’m sorry! Now, can we stop playing games? You don’t think I’ll let you spank me, for God’s sake!” Nate laughed, bright and hysterical. “Just punch me, if you’re so upset.”

Eliot didn’t bat an eye at his incredulity. “I won’t ask you again. Boxers go too.” Eliot began to take off his belt, his hands deft on the thick leather. “You know, Nate, this isn’t what I usually do to people who con their teams.”

Nate’s usual brilliant focus was shredded by the sound of leather hissing against denim as the belt came free.

“This is what I do when someone I care about is getting out of control because they don’t have the boundaries they need. You need a line to toe, Nate? Here it is. But if you pull a stunt like this again, you’re going to find out what I usually do. And you’re going to like it even less than this.”

Eliot looped his brown leather belt and let it hang loosely from his left hand, waiting. Nate’s mind was sparking through the haze of alcohol as he tore through schemes and plans before coming to a limping halt at the realization that he was well and truly trapped. There was no one he could call for help and no way to escape from Eliot on what he clearly considered a “job.” Even worse, his own conscience was telling him that he deserved punishment for conning his own team

_Catholic guilt: 1, Dignity: 0_ he thought, wryly

Nate managed to hold out for about 20 seconds beyond this epiphany before his hand moved to unfasten his slacks. The rush of humiliation was almost enough to tamp down the unwelcome arousal he felt at the initial order, and if he was honest, had been feeling underlying much of the confrontation.

Nathan Ford had never been with a man, but he wasn’t blind, and Eliot’s particular blend of intelligence and enigmatic ferocity held a disconcerting appeal for him. Eliot making a blatant move for dominance was, _well._

As he pushed his pants and boxers over his hips, Nate turned to face the table, with the admittedly vain hope that Eliot wouldn’t notice the . . . conflicted response he was having to being ordered around by his younger teammate.

*****

Eliot did notice. He first noticed when he had his hand clasped over Nate’s mouth. His boss’ eyes were blown, and it wasn’t entirely fear.

_Huh. How ‘bout that._ In and of itself, arousal wasn’t an unusual response to being dominated. The surprise was more in the person. This was a part of Nathan Ford that Eliot had not expected to encounter, and certainly not in this context. _Fuck. I hope this doesn’t launch him into a sexuality crisis. That could get… troublesome._

Eliot changed his attention outward again and watched as Nate kicked his shoes off and skimmed out of his jeans and underwear, turned away from Eliot in a fruitless attempt to hide his arousal. As Eliot had suspected, Nate wasn’t as soft around the edges as he seemed. He often dressed to let people underestimate him, and it worked. Eliot took a moment to appreciate the view, knowing full well how humiliated Nate was feeling. He could see the flush in the back of his neck, and the tension radiating from his stance. He chuckled, darkly. Reining Nate in from his own destructive behavior was a long time coming, and he was damn well going to enjoy having the upper hand.

*****

“Very good, Nate. Hands on the table.”

  
Exposed from the waist down, aroused and bent over his own table, Nate suddenly wished desperately for Sophie’s ineffective lecture, Parker’s coldness, Hardison’s disappointment. Anything but Eliot’s calculated scrutiny. Soft, rough, laughter floated through the air and he shuddered a bit. Nate grasped and held onto the defiance that usually held him through bad situations.

“Get on with it then, Eliot.” He intoned, feigning boredom almost as well as Sophie on a grift. “You have you little moment holding the reins and we can get on with our lives.”

In retrospect, the defiance was probably misplaced here. Instead of responding with the belt, as Nate had fully expected, Eliot strode around the table to stand in front of him, and Nate had no way to hide his shameful state. Instead of taunting him about it though, Eliot held his eyes and said something much more devastating.

“Nate, what you are failing to understand here is that from now on, you only have the reins if I give them to you. The team is with me on this. Even Sophie. Especially Sophie. You know what I told them, before I came over here? I told them that I was going to deal with you. My way. And I told them if, and only if, I had a hard time, I’d let Hardison show them the video feed of this little encounter. Really, you’re lucky I don’t just invite them all over for the show. If we have to have one of these little talks again, I just might.”

Eliot smiled pleasantly at him for a moment before letting his eyes slide downward. He smirked and turned to walk back to Nate’s side of the table.

“Parker was right, you do like kink, huh?” he teased. Nate dropped his head, not sure if he was going to laugh, cry or try to throttle Eliot. In the end, he did none of those things, though his eyes burned with the indignity of it. He tracked Eliot’s soft footsteps until they stopped. Nate’s exposed skin felt chilled, and he flinched when Eliot nudged his ankles further apart.

A hot, callused hand landed on the back of his neck, and Eliot bent in to say, with unnecessary intimacy, that Nate was to receive thirty strokes, and forty if he protested or tried to get away. Nate’s cock jumped at this, and if his painful flush worsened from the combined anxiety, arousal and embarrassment, well Eliot had already moved back.

The first blow to his backside startled him out of his mental walk of shame and he gave a strangled shout. The second stroke landed just below the first at the curve of his ass, the third hit his upper thighs. The shock, humiliation, and acute sense of exposure slid neatly around his arguably formidable defenses, rendering Nate’s view of the smooth wooden table blurry by the fifth stinging stroke. By the tenth stroke he couldn’t suppress the tears.

His arousal had flagged with the shock of the initial blows, but had since regained itself and Nate started to worry he might shame himself even further before this was done. At fifteen strokes Eliot stopped and when Nate realized that the next blow was not forthcoming, he slowly lifted his head. Eliot was there, suddenly, his fingers tipping Nate’s chin up until he was standing upright again.

  
“Tell me again why we are doing this, Nathan.” Eliot’s expression was blandly inquisitive, and Nate had the disconcerting feeling that he was being mocked somehow. Resigned to Eliot’s whims, he cleared his throat to answer, his voice quiet and hoarse.

“Because I conned the team and put everyone in danger. I was out of line.”

“Always knew you were a bright one, Nate. And if this happens again?”

“You- you will provide consequences.” The exposed skin on his ass and the backs of his thighs itched with heat and he shifted his feet on the cool hardwood floor.

“Yes. I will. And how many more strokes do you have left on this punishment?” Rallying, Nate favored him with a baleful look. Eliot simply raised an eyebrow. “How many more, Nate, or I’ll make you count out loud.”

“. . .Fifteen! For fuck’s-“

A few steps back, and Eliot swung the belt and delivered the next five strokes in quick succession. Nate bit back the shout surging in his throat and ended up making a strangled, keening sound. The final ten strokes were spaced agonizingly far apart, each seeming to fall harder than the last and the waiting between somehow much worse. Bizarrely, his erection persisted. Finally, the blows stopped, leaving Nate in an odd state of utter humiliation and mental quietude.

He was too drained to really think about anything.

And wasn't _that_ a strange state of affairs.

  
*****

  
Eliot helped Nate balance to put his boxers and jeans back on. He led Nate to the couch and settled next to him. Nate sat stiffly, clearly in pain and pretending otherwise. And if that didn’t just about sum up every significant thing about Nathan Ford, he’d eat Parker’s cereal for lunch.

“Christ, just-“ Eliot mumbled after watching Nate trying (and failing) to slip back into his own mind. He pushed at Nate’s shoulder until they were facing one another on the couch and put his hand on the back of Nate’s neck, under the sweat-smooth curls.

“You- you said once, that we weren’t friends.” Eliot began, his voice careful. Nate made a stilted movement to protest, but was quelled when Eliot tightened his hand on his nape. “Whatever was the case then, you know that isn’t true. We are friends. Damn good thing, too. That being the case, Nate, would you do me a favor? Just fucking tell me what’s going on sometimes. I’ll come by for a beer. Stop acting like a martyr. This team, our family, exists because of you. We feel pretty useless when you just leave us out of your plotting. That isn’t part of the deal. You hear me?”

  
There was a long silence and Eliot settled himself in for a wait. He was surprisingly good at waiting. Horses. People. War zones. All requiring a great deal more patience than he had anticipated when he was younger. It was a skill he found himself appreciating more every year. 

*****

Nate held himself still. He was hurting, and feeling it. Completely sober now, nothing between him and his pain, his loss. His self loathing, as per usual. The bruises Eliot had gifted him with. He wanted to pull away. To storm off and slam the door in a fit of childish pique. His pride didn't let him move, one way or the other. Eliot’s hand was still hot and callused on the back of his neck. He thought about it, what it would be like to actually let his team, or at least Eliot, shoulder some of his emotional baggage for a bit. God knew they did anyway, having to deal with his bad habits. Sins. He thought about Father Paul and the path he didn’t follow. His lost son. And now, Eliot, who was so much more than Nate had ever dared imagine him to be back when he chased him, working for IYS. Slowly, the irony of their current state of affairs became obvious. This seemed a good time to take a leap of faith.

Nate relaxed.

*****

In the silence, Eliot felt the yield in Nate’s weight under his hand that signaled capitulation. It was even more subtle than the inward flick of a horse’s ear, much less visible than a white flag. Usually he would say something more.

This time, he just smiled.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan Ford had a new plan.

Nathan Ford had a new plan.

Usually, his plans resulted in someone losing a great deal of money, or their company, or their freedom (all in the name of a good cause, of course). This particular plan was simple: Stay in bed indefinitely. Or, until hell froze over and he forgot everything that happened the previous night. He was going to need a very competent delivery guy, but he’d stolen more complicated things than that.

After Eliot had finished with the beating, and the coddling, he’d quite literally put Nate to bed and tucked him in. The details of this were a bit hazy from the exhausted fog Nate had found himself in, and he wasn’t sure whether or not he imagined the brush of warm, dry lips across his forehead, just before he fell into a deep sleep. Presently, he found himself with a mild headache, a tender ass, and a painful erection.

The alarm went off, buzzing blandly into the still, stuffy air of his room.

He didn’t move to shut it off.

He didn’t get up.

 ******************************************************************************

 

Parker was sitting on the kitchen counter when Eliot stumbled out of his bedroom.

“Dammit, Parker!” he growled. She tipped her head to the left and regarded him closely. Then she smiled, and it was only a bit frightening. Eliot pretended to ignore her, opting instead to begin making breakfast. He could feel her gaze on him as he pulled out the eggs, milk, mushrooms, Muenster and dill. It wasn’t until he had set a plate next to her on the counter, and seated himself at the table that she spoke. When she did, he almost died choking, which was an experience he was, frankly, loathe to repeat after that time in Hong Kong.

“Why don’t you ever spank me? Or Hardison? We annoy you all the time.”

On the one hand, he wasn’t really surprised. There was no such thing as privacy on their team anymore, between Hardison’s electronic voyeurism, and, well, Parker. Never one to waste food, Eliot determinedly cleared over half his plate (maybe some onion next time) while he tried to construct a response that didn’t involve yelling. Tempting though it was, shouting didn’t really work with Parker. Finally, he looked over at her. She was still perched on the counter, an empty plate at her side, long blond hair bound back in a loose pony-tail.

“You don’t ever talk to Nate about this. Hear me?”

Her head snapped up. “Talk to Nate about what, Eliot? How you bent him over the table, and beat him until he cried? Or why he liked it?” Her crooked little smile was more than a bit frightening.

“ _Parker.”_

“He slept last night. All night.” She said, dropping the grin to look at him solemnly. “That hasn’t- he doesn’t do that very often. I just- this might change things. I want to know why.” Eliot didn’t bother to ask how she knew that particular tidbit, he just nodded, taking the question seriously. Thoughtfully, he finished his eggs.

“Nate,” he began, quietly, “is living through the idea of being in control. He’s brilliant, and he can manipulate people like no one I’ve seen since… well. In a long time. I get it, I do. But he’s losing himself trying to be above the pain he’s in. There has to be a point when it stops. When he stops. And this team is all any of us has, and it’s a good deal. It’s good work.” He paused, and pushed a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “I-I didn’t know what else to do.”

Parker’s blinked, slightly surprised at his admission. Not at the truth of it, but that he told her what he didn’t know. _Trust._ Her mind offered. This was a different kind of trust than the professional trust that had held the team through many jobs, or the trust that Eliot probably wouldn’t try to hurt her for breaking into his house, this was a fragile, new kind of trust. She wasn’t sure what to do with it. Her eyebrows wanted to furrow in confusion, and she stopped them.

Her stomach twisted a little at the realization that Eliot could be _trusted_ in a way she didn’t know how to respond to.

A fleeting, genuine smile crossed her lips, and she slid off the counter, making no sound on the tile as Eliot warily watched her approach. She kissed him briefly on the cheek, and said “Thanks, Eliot.” Just a little too loudly before climbing out his kitchen window. Eliot sat still for a few minutes, nonplussed, before it occurred to him that he didn’t know what she had done with the window screen.

 

 ******************************************************************************

 

For the next couple of weeks, Nate successfully avoided crossing paths with Eliot. He told the team, via an e-mail to Hardison, to take a break and blow some of their money before going to ground, which basically involved finding a bar he’d never been to and holing up in it.

The embarrassing thing was, he couldn’t drink.

See, in theory, he could drink, and he did, technically, but every time he reached for a second glass, he had a vivid flashback of Eliot’s low growl in his ear telling him in no uncertain terms what the consequences of crossing him were. It took about six failed attempts at six different bars before he dragged his shaky, sweaty, humiliated self to the motel room he’d rented under a new alias (a weak attempt at further avoiding the team). He proceeded to drink water, order Tex-Mex and watch bad action movies for the next two weeks, drifting in and out of lucidity as his body adjusted to the withdrawal.

As his body and mind cleared, however, his usual demons returned in full force. The only escape from this torment seemed to be increasingly invasive thoughts about Eliot, however, leaving him in an uncomfortable cycle of despair, humiliation, arousal and frustration. The third week he took himself to a gym he didn’t previously frequent, and took his frustration out on a punching bag or the track.

He made it a goal to work himself into exhaustion, and about a month into his self-imposed exile he managed to sleep through the night. He knew he would have to go back soon- his mind was restless again, and he needed a problem to solve. Preferably one that had more to do with corrupt CEOs than unwelcome sexual epiphanies.

Part of him wondered if the team knew where he was, or if he’d actually managed to avoid them for once. He doubted that his presence was actually unmonitored, but he appreciated the space, regardless.

 

 ******************************************************************************

 

During this hiatus, Hardison occasionally wondered whether Nate was really so delusional as to believe himself free of surveillance. _Harry Fabian? Really, Nate?_ It was like he was begging to be found.

He said as much to Parker, who simply laughed the braying, awkward laugh he loved, and wouldn’t tell him why. She did steal his orange soda, however. 

 

******************************************************************************

 

The first time Eliot and Nate saw each other after “That Night” (as they each had taken to calling it in the privacy of their thoughts) was almost anticlimactic. It was early evening, and Nate was deep in thought about the comparative merits of actually sitting in a restaurant with food that did not involve disappointing flour tortillas, versus the privacy of his motel room. Of course, he could have ordered better food, but eating high-end, or even decent food in that motel room just seemed wrong, somehow. Not for the first time, Nate wondered if he could just lose himself in an armor of adopted eccentricities. He suspected it would be terrifyingly easy. On bad nights, he wondered if he already had.

The pain he still felt convinced him otherwise.

 

Eliot was back in town after a three week camping trip, and had decided he really needed to make some seafood. To that goal, he had gone to his favorite fish market on the East side of town. Whistling, his bag of fresh, tightly wrapped Ono swinging triumphantly from his left hand, he turned a corner, caught sight of Nate in ragged gym clothes and stopped dead. It was clumsy- never let them see you startled, he thought distantly.

The problem was, Eliot had been thinking almost incessantly of Nate since That Night. He’d be going about his day, minding his own business, and he’d be hit with the image of Nate, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, looking up at him through sweat damp curls... much as he was doing right now, actually.

“Hey.” Eliot managed.

Nate cleared his throat. Twice. “Hi, uh, Eliot.” He fell silent, his cheeks burning.

“I was just gonna-” Eliot gestured lamely at the bag in his hand, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Gone was his authority of their last encounter, he felt completely out of his depth, looking at Nate now. Was this going to fuck up _work_??

Nate pulled out his words from somewhere (the same place of resource he used to manage cons, because somehow in the last few weeks, Eliot had become a Situation), made a passably eloquent excuse, and walked quickly away. The wrong way, in fact, but there was no way for Eliot to know that.

Eliot stood for a moment, trying to figure out what was odd about that encounter (aside of the whole encounter). Something about his eyes...

Was Nathan Ford actually _sober_? _Nate?_

He turned to call after him, but Nate was a fast disappearing speck in the distance. Now probably wasn’t the time for that talk. After dinner, maybe.

Eliot whistled the rest of the way home, and sang as he cooked.

 

 ******************************************************************************

 

Nate got to his hotel room, locked the bathroom door and jacked off furiously under a too-hot spray of water, shuddering with the memory of the beating, and Eliot’s implacable voice. He leaned against the impersonal white tile after he came, hands trembling not from withdrawal, but from arousal.

Arousal, he thought he could handle.

Eliot's concern, on the other hand, was terrifying.


	3. A Conversational Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hardison raised an eyebrow. “I just want to know if we actually get to watch the next time you take a belt to Nate’s ass.”
> 
> “But we did watch.” Parker corrected, absently. Eliot took a deep breath, reminded himself sternly that yelling was not going to improve this situation, promptly ignored his own advice, and pointed a finger toward the window. 
> 
> "Out!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long! This has been finished for a while and I kept thinking I'd make it longer. However, it's looking like the next part should be it's own chapter, so here is a quick Chapter 3.

As happened more often than he’d care to admit, Hardison and Parker both made an appearance in Eliot’s kitchen just as he was pulling the Ono (olive oil, sea salt, and pepper) off of his stove-top grill. The wild rice had been done for a few minutes and was setting.

“Congratulations, man.” Hardison drawled, leaning against the counter to watch Eliot prepare their plates.

“What, for attracting strays to my kitchen?” Eliot snarked absently as he chopped green onions for garnish.

“You do that all the time. No, for beating sobriety into Nate’s sorry ass.” Eliot exercised a significant proportion of his self-control not to react by spinning around and pointing his knife at Hardison.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Hardison, but you may want to keep your mouth shut if you plan to be eating here.” Eliot said, mildly. Hardison rolled his eyes.

Eliot focused his attention on the precise placement of the fish in relation to the rice and asparagus on each of the three plates. The fact that he now habitually made enough food for three was information Eliot chose not to examine too closely.  

“You mentioned me to him that night, remember?” Hardison shifted his voice into a passable imitation of Eliot’s growl: “And I told them if I had a hard time, I’d let Hardison show them the video feed of this little encounter.” Did you think you were bluffing? You think you have oversight on Nate? That’s nothing to the oversight I run on everyone. There’s not a damn thing I don’t see. Especially not since Nate went all AWOL on us.”

Now, Eliot knew that Hardison’s surveillance network was excellent, even by his own steep standards. Since he had accepted Hardison as part of his team, he sometimes tried to ignore the extent to which he was being monitored. It creeped him out. Of course, it served a security purpose, but that didn’t mean he wanted to dwell on the more mundane (and disturbingly invasive) implications.

Eliot sighed heavily and set the attractively presented plates on the dining room table. Parker, who had been suspiciously absent (although he knew she was there), came around from behind him with the silverware and he was too weary to even blink. Sometimes he pretended to be surprised because it pleased her, but he always knew.

“No talking about this until after dinner.” Eliot intoned, going to pull two crisp blonde ales and a ginger ale from his fridge. “Fine, fine.” Hardison raised his hands, placating, before reaching to take one of the beers Eliot offered him. Eliot set the ginger ale in front of Parker and cracked his own beer. As they settled into their meals, they bickered amicably about whether or not Sophie was ever going to turn up again, or if her latest acting attempt would keep her in France.

 ___________________________________________________________________________________

 

Eliot had in fact video-called her before “That Night” to ask her advice. She had been unexpectedly sharp, pragmatic, and somewhat exasperated.

“I don’t know what exactly it is Nate needs, Eliot! But I certainly no longer harbor any illusions that I am up to the task of providing it to him. Whatever “it” is. If anyone has a chance of knocking some sense into Nate now, it’s probably you. Do you realize, you’re probably the most emotionally well-adjusted person on the team?”

Eliot had laughed then, edging on the hysterical, and abruptly sobered when he saw her uncharacteristically grave expression.“It’s true, Eliot. You’ve always understood more about Nate emotionally. I- I’ve been too tied up in what I want him to be. You know what he is- and what he is not. It drives him mad, you know.”

She had smiled then, warmly, if sadly. “I’ll come back to the team when Nate is ready to run it.”

Eliot had sat quietly in front of the blank computer screen for almost an hour after they said goodbye, weighing his options.

 

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

Hardison pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. He swept his beer up with one hand and let it swing lightly, his long fingers wrapped carelessly around the neck of the bottle. Sometimes Eliot was caught off-guard by how graceful Hardison could be, since Eliot tended to imagine him as an overgrown toddler.

Parker, meanwhile, had eaten all of her food and half of Eliot’s rice. A trick Eliot suffered with minimal growling, partly because he secretly worried she didn’t eat enough and partly because he took it as a sign of affection. As Eliot reached to take their plates, Hardison caught his eye and jerked his head in the direction of the living room. Eliot gave a curt nod and internally braced himself. He hadn’t really taken the time to have this conversation with himself yet, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to have it with Laurel and Hardy. Heh. Hardy. He made a mental note to call him that the next time they were on coms.

“Alright, what do you want to know?” Eliot pre-empted, dropping into his favorite chair. For once, Parker wasn’t sitting in it already. She was sitting cross-legged on one of the end-tables, and his dusty stack of magazines was now littering the floor. Hardison sat on his right side on the far end of a battered (but incredibly comfortable) blue couch.

Hardison raised an eyebrow. “I just want to know if we actually get to watch the next time you take a belt to Nate’s ass.”

“But we did watch.” Parker corrected, absently. Eliot took a deep breath, reminded himself sternly that yelling was not going to improve this situation, promptly ignored his own advice, and pointed a finger towards the window.

“Out.” He ordered “I can’t- I can’t do this!” he gestured furiously, trying to encompass the entire situation. “Just give me some time. I don’t have any answers for you that you don’t know or can’t figure out, and I need space.”

Hardison held his hands up, placating. “Alright, alright, don’t get your lumberjack panties in a twist.” He moved away toward the kitchen, dropping his beer bottle in the recycling bin and gathering his jacket. His Nana didn’t raise no bad guests. Well, not when it came to clean up, at least. What they did to Nate’s apartment didn’t count- that was just exposure therapy. The guy is wa-ay too uptight. He needs mess, and people, and jostling affection. And maybe, Hardison reflected, Nate needs someone to give him permission not to hurt all the time.

 

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

Parker hadn’t followed him. Hardison turned back and listened as he heard a murmur of voices from the far corner of the living room. He leaned against the doorway and observed Eliot, slumped forward in his chair, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees with Parker perched on one arm of the chair, petting his hair in a strange, mechanical motion that was probably intended to comfort.

“He’s going to come to you Eliot.” Parker was saying. “He has to- you changed him.”

“I’m not sure he’ll thank me for it though.” A rough laugh struggled from Eliot’s throat, and hung awkwardly in the air. Parker, beautifully, took no notice of it and spoke as though she had not heard him.

“No, that’s not Nate. He’ll pick a fight instead. But Eliot… I think he wants you to win.” Eliot made no reply, though his hands tightened in his hair briefly. Hardison wondered absently if Eliot would ever let him braid his hair in cornrows.

Parker petted Eliot’s hair a last time, almost proprietary about it, and Hardison suppressed a surge of clearly misplaced jealousy. Although she never played with his hair… It didn’t matter, she was suddenly at his side, then past him and out the window. Hardison cast a look back at Eliot, who hadn’t moved from the chair, his hair glowing over his hands in the lamplight. He sighed, inwardly. If Eliot and Nate didn’t sort themselves out soon, he’d have to stage an intervention. He grinned, mulling over increasingly outrageous intervention strategies as he followed Parker out the window, just for laughs.


	4. This isn't the hard part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nate calls a friend for advice.

“Hello? Nate?”

“…Hi, Maggie. Is this a bad time? I can call back, if it is, because-“

“No, no, now’s good, actually. What’s going on, Nate? Is everything ok? Are you ok?”

“Uh, well, you see-“

“Oh my god. Are you in jail again?! The hospital? What’s going on Nate??” Maggie’s voice rose slightly with each question.

“No! No- nothing like that. I didn’t mean to worry you. Just- can we talk?”

Maggie, in the relative comfort of her living room, pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it in bemusement.

“... Maggie? Are you still there?”

“…Yes. You promise nothing dire is happening? Nothing dangerous, or illegal?”

“Yes, I promise. Just. Can I talk to you for a few minutes? That’s all, I swear.”

Maggie softened. “Of course, Nate. So, what’s going on?” She could hear his exhalation of breath and grew increasingly curious about what had made Nate so anxious. Only one possibility occurred to her, assuming he was being truthful about the lack of danger, that is. 

"Nate! This had better not be about a woman, because that is seriously beyond the scope of our current relationship.”

On the other end of the line, Nate barked out a laugh. “Well. It definitely isn’t about a woman,” he said, weakly.

There were a few ways Maggie could interpret that statement, but Occam’s razor prevailed. It was a shot in the dark, but she trusted her instincts.

“I didn’t realize you were interested in men, Nate.”

“Yeah? Yeah? Well, that's good, that's a relief, because neither did I!” Nate shouted.

On the other end of the line, Maggie silently pumped her fist in celebration of her acuity.

Oblivious to her victorious antics, Nate continued, “But he,” -another great sigh, “he- he understands, he gets me. He uh, did . . . something that pulled me out of my head for a while, and…”

Maggie waited, fascinated and amused by this little turn of events. Then, a horrifying (and somewhat intriguing) thought occurred to her.

“It’s not Jim though, is it!? Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me you are not sleeping with Jim Sterling!”

A rushing sound came over the line, and then Nate was hacking and coughing as though he had just rapidly inhaled and expelled whatever he was drinking. Speaking of drinking. Something was strange about Nate’s speech. But familiar. There was a clarity that she hadn’t heard in years. Almost as if he were completely sober.

“No!” Nate yelped, once he regained control over his breathing. “Of course I’m not- with Sterling- how could you even-?!”

Maggie giggled a bit as she walked into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. This conversation had to be savored in every way. If only she had some popcorn. 

“I don’t know, Nate. You two have always been very… intense about each other. That’s all. ANYWAY- do tell. Who is the lucky man who caught your attention?”

“The degree to which you are enjoying this is unseemly, Mags.” Nate returned, dryly.

“Unseemly? What is this, an Austen novel?”

“Christ, I hope not,” Nate muttered.

Pacing alone in his seedy hotel room, he restlessly flicked the cheap pen from the desk between his fingers. It slipped free and disappeared under the dresser. Nate sighed, feeling distinctly wronged by the universe in general. 

“What was that?” Maggie asked, pleasantly. As if she didn’t know.

“Nothing, Maggie.”

“So. What’s his name? Do I know him?”

“Yeah, about that-“

“Oh my god is he on your team?”

“Can you let me get this out, please?”

“Sorry, sorry!” she smirked, safely invisible behind the phone.

Maggie had missed this about Nate. The easy, casual banter and needling that characterized so much of their relationship before Sam’s illness. It felt good to talk with him like this again. Nostalgic, even.

She heard Nate take a deep breath and let it out through his nose. At least he had learned _something_ from all the therapy they had gone to. 

“It’s Eliot Spencer.”

It took Maggie all of two seconds to match the name to the (arguably handsome) face of Nate’s hitter. Maggie knew more than she probably should about Eliot’s past and current reputation, thanks to the various times their paths had crossed in the past few years. She decided that trolling was the better part of valor. She wasn’t a saint, after all.

“Didn’t I go on a fake date with him once?” she asked, blithely. “Long hair, lots of muscles, great smile, probably out of my league as well as yours? I thought I told him you were awful in bed. Did he not believe me?”

Nate sighed heavily and didn’t respond.

“Well, I can’t fault your taste. But god, can you even handle him, Nate? Or wait- let me guess . . . it’s the other way around?”

“-Maggie!” her name was expelled in the same tone of outrage and mortification that she remembered from some of their early discussions of sexual fantasies. She hadn’t heard that particular voice in years. That tone was usually reserved for occasions where she was correct about something, and he was profoundly embarrassed. Maggie’s smile turned predatory.

“That’s _exactly_ how it is, isn’t it.” She says, slowly. “You’ve finally found someone who sees through all your bullshit and doesn’t let you get away with it.” _And has the wherewithal to outmaneuver you physically and mentally, I bet. “_ Wow, that’s- wow. Good for you, Nate. I mean it.”

The thing was- she did mean it. She truly wanted Nate to be happy. His salvation sure as hell wasn't to be found in the church (and nor was hers), but  perhaps he would find grace on his own terms.

Nate clutched the phone, his face painfully flushed, heart pounding. She didn’t know the half of it, and she already stripped the situation to its component parts. Which was humiliating, but wasn’t her infuriating brand of clarity the reason he’d called in the first place?

His hands were shaking for the first time in over two weeks, and he couldn’t blame it on the alcohol withdrawal this time.

“Mags-” he didn’t know what to say. He still needed her help and he didn’t know what to-

“Nate. Breathe. What’s wrong?”

He really didn’t deserve her.

“Mags I, he- we aren’t together or anything. I don’t even know if he’s interested. What if it messes up the team? What if… what if I want this?”

“Nate, are you actually sober right now?”

“Yes,” he replies, startled into reflexive honesty. Maggie was one of the only people who could do that sort of thing to him. Also, flaying himself open emotionally was a rare occurrence, and he was clearly off his-

“Why?”

Maggie _does not_ ask ‘Why now?’ Maggie Collins did not get to where she is presently by constantly rehashing the past. Nate’s progress is not something to be bitter about. She does not sabotage others on the altar of her own loss. Maggie Collins is extraordinary, in that way.

“I couldn’t drink more than a glass at a time after he, uhm. Told me not to.” Nate’s voice was so low she had to strain to hear him.

Maggie was silent for several seconds.

“He must have made quite an impression on you.” She said, softly.

Nate shivered, trying very hard not to think about the way he had felt that _impression_ for several days after it was made.

“I guess so,” was all he managed to reply.

“Have you spoken since he ‘told you not to drink’?”

“Not really.”

“Nate.”

“I don’t know what to do, alright?”

“Uh, call him? Go to his place? Communicate?”

“And say what, exactly? ‘Hi, Eliot, it’s been a month or two since I’ve seen you and by the way I’d really like you to fuck me blind?”

“Sure, but there’s no need to be vulgar about it.” Maggie quipped, without missing a beat.

“Maggie.”

“Nate, I think you’re making a bigger deal of this than is necessary. I want you to hang up the phone, go to his place, and talk to him like an adult. Can you do that? You already stopped drinking for him. This isn’t the hard part, I promise.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Maggie’s ribs were creaking with the effort to stop herself from laughing by the time Nate mumbled his agreement and clicked off.

He hadn’t even caught the pun, unintentional as it was. He must have it _bad._

Nate was sober. And hung up on Eliot fucking Spencer.

Maggie’s laughter was so loud through the open window of the kitchen that it startled more than one passerby.

She hadn’t laughed so much in ages.

It felt great.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think this would be its own chapter. But, here we are. Sorry for the ages long wait between posts! I'm still slowly plugging away at this one.


	5. I've never loved a darker blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot has a beer. 
> 
> Then he thinks about Nate.

Eliot listened for the distinctive silence that would inform him that his guests had finally cleared off. He first heard the very distinctive sound of Hardison cursing as the tip of his shoe caught on the windowsill. _Honestly_ , Eliot thought, _Parker should have trained him better by now._

The silence finally came, and Eliot allowed his mind to focus on Nate.

 

 

Well. Maybe he needed another beer, first.

 

 

Beer in hand, Eliot reclaimed his preferred corner of the living room couch, tucking one leg beneath himself as he was wont to do in the comfort of his own space. He leaned back and analyzed the situation as though he would a job. He decided to collect the facts and laid them out by category: his own understanding of the present situation, what he knew about Nate, possible outcomes of the situation, and finally, he would examine his thoughts and emotions toward Nate and determine his preferred outcome.

 Eliot acknowledged that his typical response to any given crisis was to resolve it in the most efficient manner he could determine. When he realized how far away from the team’s harbor Nate had drifted, how close they had all come to losing him, he simply acted. Well, he had warned Hardison that he was going to confront Nate -he wasn’t completely careless- but he hadn’t entirely realized his own intentions until he had Nate pinned under his gaze, yielding.

Eliot was alarmed at the strength of his own response- he hadn’t treated Nate as a recalcitrant team member, or even as family. He had treated Nate as though he belonged to Eliot. As though they were intimate. As his- _say it, Spencer. You treated him like your fucking sub. And Nate did not sign up for that. He has no idea what that means._ Eliot flushed, remembering his behavior toward an unsuspecting Nate. He had steadfastly avoided examining his actions too closely, an immature luxury he rarely allowed himself. The last time he had been so deep was-

_Fuck._

Eliot’s blood ran cold as his carefully constructed mental wall that had been preventing him from making this particular connection failed him entirely.

_Moreau._

_. . . Damien._

The abrupt thud-and-fizz sound of his mostly full beer bottle hitting the wooden floor brought him back to the present with a jolt. Eliot exhaled, shakily, as he moved to retrieve the bottle and get a rag to wipe up the mess.

This was _not_ the same thing.

Nate was nothing like Moreau, and Eliot was not Nate’s. . . anything.

He was Nate’s hitter.

That was all.

_Why are you lying, Eliot?_

Parker’s voice echoed in his head, detached and curious, though no doubt she’d ask that exact thing if she could hear the load of shit he was feeding himself right now.

_You can lie to the whole world if you want, but you can’t lie to yourself, son._

_Gee, thanks Dad, ya think I didn’t figure that one out yet?_

Eliot remembered that argument, like he remembered all of their arguments. In surround sound and Technicolor. But the point still stood. _Now let’s try this little train of thought again, without the bullshit._

Eliot stood up from where he had been crouched, the floor wiped clean and a damp rag chilling his hand. He realized he felt cold, and sticky- he had broken into a sweat at the mere thought of Moreau.

_Weak, Spencer_ he chided, acidly. _You should have seen this coming._ Suddenly furious with himself, he turned and headed for his shower, pitching the rag viciously toward the laundry room at the end of the hall as he turned into his bedroom. Within moments, he had stripped and ducked into the pounding stream of hot water.

He took a deep breath.

And then another.

And a third.

Nate _was_ like Moreau, in some ways. Eliot had always been drawn to brilliance, and Nate was just as bright (and broken) as Moreau, though in entirely different ways. They were both damaged, powerful men- and like calls to like. Eliot leaned against the tile wall, allowing himself to remember how it had been with Damien. Decisions he had made. Actions he had taken. Gestures he hadn’t made.

Danger. Power. Attraction. Trauma. Need. Respect. Vulnerability. Desperation.

_Damien._

He remembered the day he had reached out.

_Damien._

He remembered the night he turned his back.

_Damien._

And every wretched thing he did in between.

_Damien._

Including the worst thing.

_…Damien._

It all came down to hubris, on both sides.

There was a reason Moreau had suffered Eliot to walk away.

After all, it is a truth universally acknowledged that it is rather unseemly for a sub to kill his Dom.

. . . Even indirectly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later- _much_ later- Eliot curled up beneath more blankets than were strictly necessary and thought about what he wanted from Ford.

_Nate._ His mind insisted.

Before they were teammates, Eliot had always admired Nathan Ford. His integrity was towering, and his intelligence was renowned. His partnership with Sterling was the stuff of legends (or buddy cop shows, depending on who you asked).  Eliot’s evasion of him was always respectful, and eventually became playful (at least from Eliot’s perspective). They still had a standing verbal chess game going on. He _liked_ Nate. It wasn’t often you had someone in the game who was the kind of good Nathan Ford exuded, which was all the more impressive when you considered Jimmy.

Nate as a team leader was... inspiring. On the job, he feinted and staggered and blustered and then made plays that left Eliot riveted by the sheer grace of them. It wasn’t like working for Moreau at all, really. They did work that Eliot took pride in, and the cons felt like dances, even when everything went to hell.

Nate wavered between terse standoffishness (“You and I are _not_ friends, Eliot.”), to warm camaraderie, but he had always kept them all at arms-length, excluding Sophie, and Eliot had always worried about him. When Nate finally wandered too far, Eliot brought him to heel. And the way Nate responded was . . . _breathtaking_.

The things Eliot knew about Nathan Ford were legion. He knew how he looked drunk, sober, broken with grief (which was always), high on power, dizzy with success, stricken with fear. He knew his height, weight, age, medical history. He knew the kind of alcohol he preferred and the kind of woman he went for (single barrel bourbon and out of his league).

He knew what Nate looked like in subspace.

He knew Nathan Ford wanted him, and finally, he acknowledged how much he wanted Nathan Ford.

Specifically, he wanted Nathan to be his romantic partner and submissive.

_Nate, on his knees, looking up at him through sweat-soaked black curls, eyes burning._

Eliot shuddered, allowing one hand to trail down his stomach as he imagined. The very idea of Nathan Ford granting him his submission was intoxicating.

_And dangerous._ He reminded himself, sternly. _Nathan Ford may be less ruthless than Moreau, but don’t make the mistake of underestimating how badly he can hurt you. In fact, Nate’s humanity makes him the most dangerous person you have ever dedicated yourself to._

So? Wasn’t that the point? Find someone capable of tearing your soul out and make yourself theirs?

_Wow, that’s real romantic, Spencer. Who’s to say Nate’s even interested in your particular brand of crazy?_

Well, Parker, for one.

Nate’s expression that night, for another.

And also-

_Fine! I get it, okay?!_

Eliot took a deep breath, clearing his mind. There was no sense in getting all worked up over things that hadn’t happened yet. Parker was likely right- Nate would come to him eventually.

Until then, Eliot would simply wait him out. It wouldn’t be like last time. He was older, wiser. Nate wasn’t nearly as crazy as Damien had been. Nate was _good._

Everything was going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Hozier's "Better Love."  
> Thanks to Zarkovi for beta.


End file.
